Dedicated to the almighty Otherhawk and InSilva. Thank you both for everything. You're such an inspiration and I'm flattered to think that you have actually been waiting for this. And I hope it turned out alright. Sorry for the delay, I had some massive trouble with this.

I wonder how am I still here

Sometimes, Rusty thought, sometimes he was glad and thankful to have grown up on a fairground and learned from the artists and carnies. He remembered Shayar, the escape artist, who had strangled himself while desperately rehearsing for the beginning of high season. Two weeks before, on Rusty's eighth birthday, however, he had shown him a trick under the pledge of secrecy.

Roozbeh, he had said, because Shayer had never tried to remember names, this is important.

And after his wife had tied Shayer's hands behind his back with a rope, Rusty had checked the knots and sat down.

Watch, kid. Watch.

And Rusty had watched. He'd watched the quick movement of the only two fingers that could move, had watched the wrists wriggle and the knuckles find a way through the layers of rope. He had watched the thumbs turn and the index fingers pull at one end of the rope and the palms turn inwards and suddenly the rope had fallen down.

Alright, he had said. I can do that.

Shayer had tied him up and Rusty had known he had made even tighter knots, because although it was Rusty's birthday, Shayer had still had his professional honour.

Five minutes later, the rope had fallen to the floor and Shayer hadn't said a word. He had only smiled.

After two weeks, there hadn't been a knot or a tie he couldn't open.

After Shayer's death, he had never felt the fascination and urge again. Never had to.

Until now.

His left ring finger had found one end of the rope, his right thumb could turn. Two fingers. The rope cut into his wrists and he bit his teeth while moving them. Nothing. No loosening. A cramp shot up his forearm and he could feel the sweat on his face.

Breathe and concentrate, Rus, he told himself and let stress and anxiety roll off his mind. If he comes back before you're done…

Breathe.

Suddenly, he was able to stretch the fingers on his right hand. A fingernail brushed past the other end of the rope.

Alright, he said to himself. I can do that.

The trick was to work steadily, to pretend to be doing the first step of a long journey, even if it seemed like one of the last steps. Rusty was aware that as soon as his mind noticed the adrenaline and hope, he'd lose focus. He'd forget which knot had been the weakest. He'd have to count the different parts and layers of rope that ran over the base of his thumb again.

Rational, schematic advancement.

And most importantly, he was not to let his mind drift to Danny.

Danny had decided that although the man in the basement had said something about not informing anyone, they wouldn't find out. And he wasn't going to let anything slip. But he had to make these two calls. Because there were only two people who would understand.

"Hello?"

"Bobby."

"Danny. How are you?"

"I'm fine. But," his voice became a bit too throaty, "I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore…" he let the phrase linger for a while "… and I need your help."

He could see Bobby closing his eyes and leaning against something, probably sitting down. "Give me a name."

Overwhelmed with inexplicable thankfulness, he said the name.

He allowed himself to enjoy the newly gained feeling of freedom for three seconds. Then he slowly raised his hands and pulled off the blindfold.

A concreted cellar room. Blank and empty, except for the neon lamp above his head and a chair in the opposite corner, next to the dark door.

Slowly and assessing, his gaze travelled from the chair to the lamp and back. The merciless, sharp light burned in his eyes, but that didn't matter, because he could orient himself and prepare himself.

For a moment, his eyes had rested on the firm lock and the walls had started to come closer, but he had clenched his teeth together and barricaded his soul. Anxiety had brought the pain back and he didn't need heavy shoes walking up to him again, and he didn't need the fingerprints and the grim laughter.

His body didn't feel like his own and he ignored the blood on his temple and the coldness of his skin.

In a few minutes, he would know. And he would suffer, Danny knew that, and he would ask and despair. And then he would breathe deeply and he would be of irreplaceable assistance.

His fingers dialed the number and somewhere inside, he remembered the last talk. Hours ago. As he recalled what he had said – "I know what I'm doing. It's going to work and it's safe. Don't worry." – he had to keep himself from hanging up.

"Daniel? I thought the both of you would be either be celebrating or fleeing the state."

He didn't know what to say. Silent pleas to forgive it all escaped his lips, but then he said "I'm not sure we're in Kansas anymore" and he could see Reuben frown, because fleeing the state would definitely not involve Kansas.

The plan had been easy. Actually, Rusty was quite sure he had been set up, but then figured that he should use the chance he didn't have.

After slowly getting up and almost losing consciousness again, he had managed to put the chair under the neon light, then he had screwed it off. Now, glass tube in one hand and the chair in the other, he waited right beside the door, head pressed against his knees. All hopes that the sudden narrowness of the room would vanish in the darkness had proved pointless, and the pain and the fear were back, although he had tried to lock them away. They had sneaked up at him and now they were everywhere.

And then he remembered indicating that Danny shouldn't worry. And in the middle of hating himself for letting them con themselves, he hoped Danny had understood.